


Lie to Me (Denial)

by sky_reid



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Denial, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Lies, M/M, Sexual Content, Songfic, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 00:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_reid/pseuds/sky_reid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a <i>lie</i> in believe, an <i>over</i> in lover, an <i>end</i> in friend, <strike>an <i>us</i> in trust</strike> and an <i>if</i> in life.</p><p> </p><p>  <span class="small">...or: 1) <i>Five Times Charles Wished He Didn't Have Telepathy and the One Time He Chose Not to Trust It</i>, 2) <i>Five Lies Erik Regrets and the One Truth He Can't Deny</i>, and <strike>3) <i>Five Times Erik Visited and the One Time He Stayed</i></strike></span></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Five Times Charles Wished He Didn't Have Telepathy and the One Time He Chose Not to Trust It

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M for sex as a topic and mentions of violence.
> 
> Title and lyrics from Red's _Lie to Me (Denial)_.
> 
> I feel as though angst should be a warning as well as a genre here. No, seriously, you don't understand, pure unadulterated angst. Angst fest. Nothing but angst. I also want to point out that no, for god's sake, I don't think Erik is actually this cruel and unaffected and whatnot, I just had the idea of _what if Erik really didn't care about Charles, imagine all the potential for angst there_ and then, naturally, I had to write it.

 

_Lie to Me (Denial)_

 

or

 

_5 Times When Charles Wished He Didn't Have Telepathy_

_And the One Time When He Chose Not to Trust It_

 

 

_Lie to me;  
you can feel  
that this love was never real.  
Walk away,  
you can learn to love again.  
  
Lie to me;  
you can leave,  
I'll still be here when you see  
you're not alone,  
you don't have to run again.  
Leave me in denial._

 

1

 

Charles likes to think that he's interesting. In fact, he likes to think he _knows_ he's interesting. After all, plenty of people have told him so. Or at least thought that about him. He's also plucked out of their minds that he is unusually smart and well-spoken, that he's always polite and knows how treat everyone properly (he doesn't tell them that that's only because he knows how they _want_ him to treat them) and that he comes off as very mature for his age. Many people think that about him and he's quite proud of those compliments, unspoken as they are.

 

So if he's that good with strangers, it should really be easy for him to talk to his mother. But she is hardly there at all, and when she is, she is too busy for him and he can sense that she doesn't want him to distract her from whatever unquestionably important thing she's doing right that instant (Charles doesn't know what exactly she's doing, but he gets a vague feeling that it has something to do with _perfect burn down my throat, smells delicious, forget forget forget_ ). He doesn't like to upset his mother, so he tries to tell his ever-changing nannies and baby-sitters everything he would like to tell _her_. They think he's charming and adorable, but their thoughts are not as warm with affection as he thinks they should be.

 

On his eighth birthday, his mother is remarkably sober. Everyone commends her for it and she tells them that she really doesn't know how that happened, but Charles has a distinct feeling that he may have just _wished_ for it too hard. It can't be that bad, though, he decides, because everyone is praising her. She must enjoy that as much as he does.

 

When she approaches to give him his present, he waits for that _such a smart kid, dealing so well, so well-behaved, properly raised, why aren't my kids more like him_ string of thoughts that inevitably comes with people giving him his birthday gifts, but behind her wide, bright smile he can see the _so bored, why is there no alcohol at kids' parties, when is this going to be over, please just get it over with._

 

He would trade all the compliments he overheard, just to be able to get away from her thoughts. He would trade it all, he would take the silence of his lone mind, just to _not_ hear that.

 

2

 

Charles is used to getting what he wants. It's just how the world works – one way or the other, through their own will, through his money or, in worst case scenarios, through his power, people _will_ let him have what he desires. Sometimes, there's a tiny problem when _he_ is not sure what he wants, but once that's settled, he goes and gets it.

 

The bigger issue comes up when he wants things that lose their meaning if obtained through his more unorthodox manners.

 

He's more than capable of _making_ people love him, respect him, crave him. But... that kind of defeats the point, doesn't it? When he was younger, he always worried that somehow, without noticing, he was making everyone around him like him, think highly of him and care for him. (For a while he even thought that maybe he'd somehow subconsciously _made_ Raven like him enough to stay with him, but then he realized that his ten-year-old self would have probably made his mother love him, if he'd been capable of doing such things). Sometimes, when he's too drunk to slur his pick-up lines seductively enough, he makes the most attractive person in the bar think they like him and that they want to come home with him. It's a cheap trick, but he's usually too inebriated to care at that point. Other times, when he _really_ doesn't feel like studying, he makes his professors think he knows everything and let him pass. He doesn't do it often because it always makes him feel sleazy, but he'd be lying if he said he'd never done it.

 

He may be bad at boundaries and personal space (at least the mental kind), but he firmly believes that everyone _should_ be given a choice. And if their choices _truly_ don't sit well with him, well, he has ways of dealing with that. He's never really had a problem with this (he's long since convinced himself that he only meddles when it's for the best of everyone; he doesn't care to revisit that issue).

 

The one time the decision if he should affect someone or not is taken out of his hands is when he senses Erik's mind in the water. He doesn't really mean to sift through all of Erik's memories, doesn't even _expect_ it when the overpowering _anger, hate, revenge_ hits him so hard it _hurts_ , and it catches him so completely off-guard, that for the next few minutes he's hardly aware of the words that leave his mouth, of the steps he takes to the deck. In fact, he's hardly aware of anything but _hurt, pain, darkness, rage, so much rage_ , and then the memories flood him before he can stop them and all the, _oh god_ , humiliation, the marking like they're animals, the burn of the numbers on _his_ forearm, the exhaustion, and then more pain, always more pain, and the sharp point of, _oh no that's terrible_ , losing his mother, the only person on his side, and the following experiments, the disgust, the _fury,_ the hatred, and it's all so _strong_ that Charles is left reeling and scrambling for his own mind because he thinks that he somehow _lost it_ somewhere along the way. The memories feel so raw and real and _there_ and Charles literally can't tell what's him and what's not, he _lives_ through the memories like they're his own life and in the end he can physically feel the pressure of water around him, the desperate, yet ignored need for oxygen; he doesn't have the concentration to use his mind, doesn't even know what's _his mind_ , can only jump in and try, try so hard to hold Erik tightly, break off the flow of his thoughts, rely on the physical contact to distract them both and even that only gets him far enough to let him _speak_ to Erik, not really influence him.

 

When they resurface, Charles is still a little dazed, lost and confused, but so _awed_ at the sheer intensity of what he's getting from Erik, that it helps him regain some control (at least enough to be able to tell himself apart from Erik), decide what's best to say, what Erik _needs_ him to say at the moment. And it's easy to see it now that Charles has at least some semblance of perspective, it's easy to find the shade of _alone, so alone, no one there, no one cares, no such thing as care, no such thing as love_ in every memory, every thought, every _everything_ he got from Erik. It's still so fresh in Charles' mind, like an unhealed wound that burns from the ocean's salt water, powerful enough that for a second Charles loses contact with himself again, feels like _he_ 's the one who is _alone, the only one in the world, nobody who understands_ and for a fleeting second he wishes it would just _stop_ , that he would just stop feeling it, thinking it, _knowing_ it. He regrets the thought the very next moment because he loves his ability, is as proud of it as he is of his PhD, or of his sister, even more proud than that. And he can show it to Erik, he can _teach_ Erik the worth of their gift; more importantly, he can make Erik see that he's _not_ alone, he can give Erik the love that's been denied to him, prove to him that it exists.

 

Not only can he, he _will._ Because he wants to. And Charles Xavier always gets what he wants.

 

3

 

Charles likes sex. He doesn't think there's any shame to that. The human species has long stopped being about survival, and started being about pleasure; and sex, Charles has found, is a very pleasurable act indeed. And well, Charles is a bit of a hedonist; in fact, he's a bit spoiled, so he indulges in it when he feels like it. He likes women, enjoys the delicate curves of their bodies, but finds it difficult to establish a more profound bond with them (he usually jokes that Raven has already hogged all the affection for women he has in him). He prefers men, cherishes the rough, deep noises when he fucks them and revels in the feeling of being taken, quickly, from behind, favours having a familiarly shaped body with him in bed.

 

Sex with Erik, he learns, is more than just very pleasurable. It's bloody _sensational_. Erik somehow knows all the right places, the perfect speed, somehow guesses exactly where Charles wants his hands and his mouth, always says what Charles hopes he will. Charles doesn't think anyone has ever gotten him off as quickly as Erik can manage, or that anyone before Erik has ever made him come so hard, his vision completely blacks out. Everything is somehow more intense with Erik.

 

But for all that Erik is the absolute best he's ever had (and that's saying something), there's always that business edge to their nights together. Erik is always precise and to-the-point, like every move he makes must somehow lead towards his goal or it's not even worth making. For Erik, it's not about pleasure (although he thoroughly enjoys every second of it, Charles makes damn sure of it), and it's not about the emotional connection (Erik doesn't cuddle or sleep in the same bed as Charles, he doesn't wake Charles with a good morning kiss, doesn't treat him any differently during the day), it's not even about Charles (Charles tries not delve deep into Erik's mind again, half because Erik's asked him not to, and half because he's afraid of losing himself in it again if he does, but Erik's immediate thoughts are bold and powerful and sometimes, Charles couldn't stop them if he tried (to be fair, he doesn't try very hard); to Erik, it's always _this feels so good, this is amazing_ , never _he feels so good, he feels amazing_ – there's passion and desire there, underlined with gratitude, but hardly any affection); for Erik, it's about practicality – Erik has needs, he wants sex, wants to unwind after a long day, and Charles is there, willing, good-looking and great in bed. Charles knows all this because, well, he's not stupid (and also because he's the kind of person who sometimes does things he said he wouldn't). But the sex is still mind-blowing, and Charles still thinks Erik is magnificent, and well, he can't come up with a better way to get close to Erik. So, more often than not, they still end up tumbling onto the mattress, kissing and moaning and tearing at each other's clothes frantically, even as Charles feels like Erik's touch is too distant and disconnected and his mind only half-present.

 

Charles is no stranger to the kind of establishment one Ms Angel Salvadore, the first mutant on their list, works in; he hasn't had the need to really frequent such gentlemen's clubs, but he has visited a few (purely out of scientific curiosity, he tells himself). It's not a place conducive to his feeling at ease, what with all the unguarded thoughts flying his way, the visceral feelings too strong for him to fight off. It's only a slight relief when Angel takes them to a more private, secluded area.

 

“Are you all right?” Erik asks, his hand resting briefly on Charles' elbow as they sit on the bed.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,” Charles brushes it off with a smile that even he knows is weak, but Erik doesn't press the issue. Charles doesn't let himself wonder much if Erik's concerned with his well-being or with his ability to see their task through (even through the haze of _lust, desire, pleasure, loneliness, pain, disgust, fear, loathing,_ Erik's thoughts are bright and elevated, not a moment's slip from _focus, goal, success_ ).

 

When Angel closes the curtain behind herself, it doesn't cut off the endless chatter in Charles' head, but it does help him concentrate on her, as if physically not seeing anyone else makes her stand out more clearly in his mind as well. He can feel that she's tired, but morbidly satisfied that it was her who managed to get away with the handsome guy every dancer was ogling. She's confused that there are two men in front of her, but is fairly confident she won't come to harm – they don't look like the type to try something shady (well, one of them does, but she's confident the other can keep him under control). Charles is always entertained by learning how others see him (and he has to commend her for her correct assumptions), so he smiles up at her in what he hopes is a reassuring way.

 

But there's a deep-seated sentiment of _repulsion, shame, unfamiliar hands everywhere, get them off, staring at me like a piece of meat_ , that makes Charles' smile falter. He's felt it before, has been feeling it since the moment they stepped it, now it's just a more clear-cut image in his eyes, so it's not really what Angel's sending that has him upset (Angel's mind is nowhere near Erik's in terms of strength and construction, details and power, it's far from threatening to overcome Charles and while Charles' heart goes out for the girl because of what the she's gone through, he's not consumed by her the way he was by Erik; that's what makes Erik so special to him). It's something else that hits him.

 

Angel has memories of men sliding their hands up her legs, tickling over her stomach and sides, forcing their tongues into her mouth, some of them still very fresh, and they unexpectedly coincide with some of Charles' own memories. Charles is familiar with the feeling of distance that comes from being touched by someone who doesn't really care about him, someone who's only in it for the sex; it surprises him that of all the no-strings-attached, one-night-only hookups he's had over the years, not one pops into his head. What is, however, brought forth by Angel's subconscious reminiscence, are Erik's hands as they unbutton his shirt, grip his shoulders, spread his thighs, Erik's eyes as they slide over his chest and arms, Erik's lips on his own. The striking similarity of the way Erik's touch feels on him, and the way these men's touches feel on Angel's skin has Charles sick to his stomach and pushing Angel out of his mind as fast as he can. He can't shut her out, her or the rest of the club, but he mutes it all as much as he can. It only helps a little, because now that he's already made the connection, he can't _not_ see it, can't _not_ compare himself to these girls, who are no more than fun, no more than just a bad decision, no more than a passing pleasure.

 

Charles wishes he didn't know, wishes he hadn't seen. He wishes he had just walked into the club like any other man, undisturbed and unconcerned. He wishes he didn't hear anything but his own thoughts, didn't have any but his own memories. It's unsettling, that Erik's managed to produce this effect twice on him now.

 

Charles looks to Erik, but can't hold his gaze for longer than a few seconds – clear and confused, but far from worried. Even through the mental earplugs Charles has, he hears Erik's thought of _get yourself together, Charles, come on_. He turns to Angel and says something, if nothing else for, than just to distract himself.

 

4

 

Nobody lies to Charles. That's just his life, nobody can ever lie to him. People try. Sometimes they try really hard. Some of them are good, very good even. But Charles sees past their perfectly proportioned smiles, and eyes just bright enough, and relaxed postures, he looks into their very own thoughts, things they can't hide, things they don't bother to censor. It often happens that Charles knows things about them, they are not even aware of. But that's just how it is for Charles; for him it's not just the perfectly intoned words or smoothly controlled body language, he knows the intent, feels the emotions built into the thought. Nobody is capable of faking that.

 

So when the guard tells them Alex Summers enjoys being in a solitary, Charles knows it's not true. The steel door presents hardly any boundary here where there are only a few people with him. Alex Summers' mind is new and unfamiliar, so naturally, Charles is drawn to it immediately. It's filled with coiled-up energy and barely suppressed anger, but woven around it is genuine concern covered in what Charles assumes has been the most present emotion in the young man's mind lately – loneliness. Alex misses company. He's not a social loner like Erik, someone who has no pressing _need_ for constant human contact, who's courteously polite when they must be, but otherwise disinterested in the company of many people; no, Alex Summers is a young man who _craves_ other people, who aches with the need to talk to someone, to touch someone, to just have someone by their side. His longing for companionship makes the stark reality of lack thereof even more jarring and Charles is easily reminded of how Erik felt that first night in the water. He wonders if Erik can assess the similarities between them based solely on his assumptions and without the help of telepathy.

 

And sure enough, when Charles extends his thoughts towards Erik, he can hear the _must have spent a lot of time alone, know what that feels like, always alone, no one cares, everyone leaves_. Charles withdraws from Erik's mind. Erik can't possibly still think that. He knows Erik doesn't _love_ him (not the way Charles so desperately wants him to), but surely after all this time, after everything Charles has done, he must know how Charles feels, must know that he's the most precious thing Charles has ever had in his life, that Charles would never leave, _could_ never leave or stop caring. But Erik _doesn't_ know. It becomes clear to Charles (and he should have noticed earlier, really, he must be getting too casual with his gift) now that he knows what to look for, that there's a buzz of _distrust, fear, apprehension_ in everything he catches from Erik on their ride back to the hotel. If he focuses on it hard enough, he can sense the determined refusal to get close to people as a preventive measure against the pain that comes when they leave. Charles tries to block it out, to make _himself_ not hear it, but like everything else with Erik, it's too strong not to be noticed, and now that Charles has a name pinned to it, it's even harder to ignore it. He presses his head to the cold glass of the car window and wishes he could just have his head to himself, _please_.

 

That night, Charles asks Erik to stay. Erik looks at him quizzically, but doesn't move from where his legs are entwined with Charles' and his arms artfully draped over Charles' waist. He rests his head on Charles' shoulder and closes his eyes. The buzz in his thoughts drops to a low hum, but it stays there. Still, Charles counts it as an improvement. He lets himself hope.

 

5

 

Charles likes being polite. He likes using pleasantries and smiling, just generally acting like a nice guy. It's not always easy, keeping a friendly face when the other person is thinking something decidedly unfriendly, but he's had years of practice. He likes the satisfaction of knowing that people feel just that little bit better after he's been nice to them.

 

This is also why he doesn't like to hide his sympathies and affection for people. Everyone feels good when they know someone cares for them, and Charles likes making people feel good.

 

His fondness of making people feel nice notwithstanding, he's never been a sap (or so he likes to think). He thinks telling somebody he loves them after three days of a relationship is juvenile and dishonest, and he doesn't like it when people tell _him_ that, and lie. In fact, if he recalls correctly, he's only said it a handful of times (most of them to Raven, once or twice to a girl he dated in high school, but he _was_ fifteen and trying to get into her pants so he figures that doesn't count), only when he was sure that he truly did mean it.

 

But right now, lying in his huge bed, in his huge mansion, with his huge plans and Erik's warm body underneath him, he can't seem to stop himself. He stares at Erik's face from where his head is resting on Erik's chest, runs his fingers over Erik's jaw and smiles when Erik looks at him. Erik's hand on his hip tightens and he sighs contentedly, feeling warm, sated and relaxed. Somewhere in the hall, the large grandfather clock is ticking away the seconds they have left (tomorrow they might kill Shaw, or they might not, they might stop a war or they might start it; either way, everything is about to change, even though Charles still can't predict how), and that makes him want to grip Erik tightly and kiss him until they both collapse from lack of oxygen and then do it again when they come to, but he knows that's silly and wouldn't convey just what he wants. He kisses Erik's throat gently, nuzzles Erik's shoulder and caresses his cheek.

 

“I love you,” he whispers. Erik doesn't react physically, probably pretending to be asleep, but there's a shift in the gentle thrum of his mind that doesn't escape Charles' notice. It's not quite panic and it's not quite recoiling, but it's a lot of honest disbelief and some contempt, a tinge of fear of some sorts – Erik's tired and boneless, so his thoughts are very fuzzy, blending with one another, it's very difficult for Charles to read them clearly. “You don't have to say it back,” Charles rushes to add and the fearful tint leaves Erik's thoughts. “But I do, really.”

 

_I don't_ , floats up clearly on the next wave of sensations he gets from Erik, coloured in gratitude, but drenched in utter apathy; they ring as honesty in Charles' mind. Charles wishes he couldn't see it, wishes Erik could lie to him, say  _I love you too_ , and wishes, oh so strongly, that he could believe it, that he couldn't easily tell apart the dishonesty from the truth.

 

1

 

Controlling Shaw is  _not_ easy. Even after all the forethought and planning and  _practice_ , it's much harder than he anticipated. He has to focus, can't afford to slip up, not with Erik in there, he can't let anything happen to Erik, won't allow even the smallest opening for Shaw to move, refuses to put Erik's life in danger like that. It's risky to even brush over the minds of everyone else, just to check if they're alive and unharmed, so he doesn't do it. He's concerned for them, of course he is, but Erik is what matters to him right now, Erik in there, alone, in danger. No, Charles can't let himself be distracted,  _this_ is what's important.

 

He lets what little remains unoccupied of his thoughts brush against Erik's mind, but Erik feels it now, tells him,  _Leave me alone, Charles._ The command is strict, if unnecessary, since Charles can't feel Erik's mind anymore which means Erik must have put on the helmet. The words echo in his mind as Shaw struggles to break free and Charles has to get a grip on himself and  _now_ , but it's difficult not dwelling on how cold the order sounded, how plain and simple, without even a hint of regret, not even fondness to soften the blow.

 

No. It's a lie, he decides. He secures his hold on Shaw and looks through his eyes. Erik is standing there, helmet on his head, coin hovering above his hand. Charles knows what's coming next, has picked the fantasy up from Erik's mind several times already, doesn't need to read Erik's thoughts to see his intent. He swallows. Takes a breath and exhales. He knows what's coming. But he can't let Shaw go, not even for a second, can't risk it,  _won't_ risk it, not when it's Erik's life on the line. He steels himself for the pain he knows is coming.

 

It's a lie. It  _must_ be a lie. There has to be a way for people to lie even in their heads, to control the emotions that normally seep into their thoughts subconsciously. There has to be a way to lie even to Charles Xavier. There just has to.

 

Because if there's not, well, Charles is not sure he can live with that.

 

He holds Shaw completely immobile as the coin starts approaching.  _This is for you, Erik, I'm not letting go. I care, I do, and I will prove it to you if it kills me_ , he thinks, but there's no way for Erik to hear him. No matter. It's true. Charles can't lie to himself in his own head.

 

Even if Erik can. And he can. Charles needs to believe that he can.


	2. Five Lies Erik Regrets and the One Truth He Can't Deny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so here's the first of two unplanned chapters I'm adding to this xD It's different from the previous one based on the flawed logic of different character - different style of writing. I'm not entirely happy with it, but I'm too lazy to write an entirely new one, so here you go, have this.
> 
> I've changed some of the tags to the story and I might change them again because I don't actually have this all planned out so I have no idea how it ends xD
> 
> Anyway. Lyrics are from the song _Life 705_ by The Rasmus.

 

_Lie to Me (Denial)_

 

or

 

_5 Lies Erik Regrets_

_and the One Truth He Can't Deny_

 

_It doesn't matter what you feel,_

_it's harder than steel._

_One day we'll find the reason why_

_I'm not sorry._

 

_It doesn't matter what you feel._

_(I'm not sorry.)_

_One day we'll find the reason why._

_(I'm not sorry.)_

 

1

 

Now, Erik wonders if he ever truly believed it, or if he knew it was a lie from the start. But then, he latched onto the words like they were a lifeline and he was a drowning man. He _needed_ the comfort and reassurance, so he took it and held onto it tight. Hope, strength, love: that's what he thought he'd found in just those two sentences. He was wrong to ever even think of them seriously.

 

_You can do it._

 

But he couldn't, could he? The coin didn't move, and the gun did fire. He couldn't do it. And he still can't. He can't do it, he knows that now as the submarine slips from underneath his fingers. He can't do it.

 

_Everything is all right._

 

It was a stupid thing to say, Erik knows now that he should have seen right through it. War outside, people dying, no end in sight. How could anything have been all right? It was a stupid thing to say, but it was even more stupid to believe it.

 

Now, Erik knows those were lies, and he's certain his mother knew that as she said them. But then, he trusted her that she wasn't mad or scared, that he was strong enough, that she'd live and the war would end and they would be free and happy again; he spent days after that (in shock, he now realizes) wondering why his mother wasn't by his side, why they couldn't go home, waiting for someone to tell him that _it's okay, you can go now; you're free_. Somehow, _losing_ hope was worse than living without it from the start.

 

Now, he wishes she'd never said that. Now, he wants to erase the words from his memory, because she _lied_ , and he _believed_ her. Now, he dreams of not having heard her words. Now, he wishes the last thing his mother gave him hadn't been a _lie_.

 

Later, he will wonder if knowing that it was a lie would have led to a different outcome. Later yet, he will wonder if he would even want a different outcome.

 

2

 

There was something Shaw always said to him – _you and me_. He'd say that they'd conquer the world, _you and me_. He'd say that they'd change everything, _you and me_. He'd say that they were the most powerful men on the whole planet, _you and me_.

 

As stupid as it seems to him now, he believed it, every time. He trusted the man who killed his mother, who tortured _him_ , who lied to everyone; but Erik thought he was special, Shaw _told_ him he was special. Now he sees it was all a part of Shaw's game, but back then he believed that Shaw was the only one who cared, the only one _different_ , like him, the only who would protect him; and that need for someone, just anyone, who would be there for him, with him, was strong enough to keep him at Shaw's side for long years, overshadowing all the hurt and pain that Shaw caused him.

 

Erik curses Shaw for lying to him like that, but in reality, he hates himself for not seeing right through it.

 

3

 

It dawns on Erik one day, when he's out drinking with Charles no less, that he had a chance to escape. One little opening in years upon years of prison. And the best part? He blew it.

 

At first, it had been just the two of them, him and Shaw. Erik hates to admit it, but that was the period in his life when he learnt most things he knows about himself and his power, about how to draw it from rage and pain, and how to nurture it. And then came others. Shaw's associates, underlings, partners-in-crime. And Erik watched them come and go, not with hope or a plan, but with jealousy. Shaw was the devil he knew, the only devil he knew, and Erik didn't want to lose him, to lose his only protection and connection with this world. So he watched as men and women came into their lives and went, and he fantasized about killing them all with his power and making Shaw proud.

 

At the time, Erik assumed they were all humans. Now he knows that at least some of them were mutants and he was just blind to their powers, blind to the proof that Shaw was lying to him. There was a woman once (and then twice and then many more times) blonde and beautiful and wearing white. He hated her with a special passion. Shaw would talk to her in private, behind closed doors, and Erik would never be allowed in. It felt like she was stealing Shaw from him, and Erik couldn't, _wouldn't_ , lose the only thing he had.

 

One day, she caught him sitting outside of Shaw's study and approached him. “You must be Erik,” she said. “Klaus talks about you.”

 

He defiantly stuck his chin out and kept quiet. Whatever she had to say, he didn't want to listen; she was an intruder, trying to steal away what was _his_ , he didn't care about her.

 

“Well, if that's what you'll be like,” she told him as she stood up from where she'd sat down next to him. “I was going to offer that you come with me instead of living here, with Klaus. But, maybe you're right. You belong here.”

 

He kept his face cool, but on the inside he was happy that somebody else recognized where he was meant to be.

 

Now he knows that her name is Emma Frost and that she's a telepath. Now he knows that she was trying to offer him a way out because she knew he was powerful, because she knew that Shaw would use him, because she wanted him on _her_ side. Whatever her reasons were, and Erik can't blame her for playing the same game Shaw was, she was his way out. And he didn't take his chance.

 

He wishes she had told him that she was special, wishes she had told him that he _didn't_ belong with Shaw, that Shaw didn't deserve him. He wishes she had told him the truth. He's not sure if it would have been enough to drag him away, make him break free sooner, but it would have been a start. Maybe nothing would be different now, or maybe everything. All he knows is that her lie kept him in that place for a good few years more, kept him a prisoner of his own naivety – _you belong here_.

 

4

 

Erik doesn't blame Raven for hiding. She grew up in a society that judged her on things much less obvious and more trivial than blue skin, with a brother who gave her protection, curiosity, love, but not acceptance and understanding that she needed. Erik knows she hardly could have run around a high school scaly and blue, but he curses Charles for not teaching her that she's perfect, it's the other people who are wrong, deficient.

 

So he tries to show her instead. He uses his powers as much as he can, for everyday things, just _because_ he can. He doesn't understand how they don't all see that they're perfect just the way they are – powerful, young, special, with such potential and no need to hide. So he tells them. He tells them that they should be proud of who they are, that they should show it off and never change for someone else.

 

And then he goes to Charles and tries to hide the deepest, darkest, most vital parts of himself. He doesn't believe that Charles knows everything about him, because if he did, he'd be long gone by now. So Erik shields his worst memories – the worst he's done and the worst he's been through, from Charles' physical and mental eyes. To keep his allies, to up his chances, to not be alone, he changes himself for them, buries what they wouldn't want to know anyway.

 

It's a different kind of hiding, not the same sense of shame, but it's enough to make him feel like a hypocrite.

 

5

 

When Charles kisses him one morning, uninhibited and unapologetic, dirty and demanding, Erik kisses back mostly on instinct. He would (maybe) consider what he's doing if Charles' hands weren't restless and deft all over his body, urgent on his clothes, and if Erik had gotten laid in the past wow, several years and weren't so horny now. But as it is, Charles has him hard in minutes and on the bed soon after. It's hurried and heated and there's an odd sense of desperation in Charles' movement, but it's mind-blowing and earth-shattering and so much better than Erik's own hand. Charles is warm and soft, he's vocal and unashamed, he knows what he wants, takes it and gives it back double; Erik's never had such amazing sex in his life and he finds himself wanting more of it.

 

He doesn't say anything. In his experience, an offer of _more_ usually also refers to more than sex, and he's not quite willing to go for that. Maybe some day, when Shaw is dead. Erik is not the type for kids or people in general, really, but maybe a hut in the mountains somewhere, acres of land, sheep and a dog. Maybe even a partner, someone unobtrusive and quiet, someone who doesn't have blue eyes and red lips, who doesn't remind him of everything he's always wanted and never had, of how broken he truly is inside. He carefully disentangles himself from Charles' limbs, goes to take a shower and prepare for the rest of their day.

 

It turns out, Charles didn't mean it as a fluke, a one-off, when he tugs on Erik's wrist that evening and kisses him again. Erik is three parts glad it's not over, and one part apprehensive of what is expected of him. Charles doesn't push him, however, and Erik indulges himself, enjoys the colleagues-by-day, shagging-like-rabbits-by-night arrangement for what it is – a pragmatical solution to resolve sexual tension when they're too tired and listless to go picking up someone else.

 

Until the night Charles asks him to stay.

 

He panics, lists all the reasons why it's a bad idea in his head and it's a true testament to how attached he's grown to the tentative bond Charles is building between them that he even goes to that much trouble, but it also makes him remember the promises he's made to himself since he started the mad chase after Shaw – no attachment, no loss, and no distraction. Charles is becoming two of those, and is bound to be the third in the end as well. Erik should stop this before it gets out of control.

 

But he stays. Because he owes Charles. Charles saved his life, gave him a home and allies, offered him help. Erik is grateful for it and hopeful about the future for the first time in a long time, and he is forever indebted because of it. Perhaps giving Charles someone to wake up to will be enough to pay off his dues. And while he feels it as a duty, it's also not really a hardship.

 

In the morning, as he watches Charles' eyes flutter open sleepily, Charles' fingers twitch on Erik's bare chest, Charles' lips part slightly on a tired but pleased sigh, Erik has a fleeting thought of _I'll_ learn _to love him_. It's an idea that almost, _almost_ makes him feel better, like a good person, until he realizes that it's a lie and it just ends up reminding him why he's _not_ a good man and that he _can't_ love anyone – he lost that ability long ago, replaced it with rage, focus and determination.

 

He knows that Charles caught the thought because his eyes go wide before they mist over and Charles hides his head in Erik's shoulder. Erik wants to offer comfort, but he can't bring himself to lie more to Charles, who hardly deserves such treatment, because he knows what it's like to console yourself with dishonesty and how much it hurts when you find out what it is.

 

1

 

Erik values truth highly. In the life he's chosen, truth is a rare delicacy. The people he deals with, the layer of the world he belongs to, they lie. They lie to others about their names and ages, where they come from and how they spent the War; they lie to themselves about their guilt and involvement. Erik doesn't need to be a telepath to know that.

 

Over the years, he's been so many people, he doesn't think he can remember all his aliases, and he certainly can't think of all the personality traits he faked with more or else success. He's convinced so many others of who and how he's like, that sometimes he wonders if he's something different from what he thinks, if he's somehow convinced himself of his own different identity. This is why he makes a point of always being honest with himself. If he thinks he did something wrong, he doesn't pretend he had an excuse for it, he accepts it as part of who he is and moves on. Sometimes it's difficult for him to face the monster that he is; other times it's easier to accept the honesty than to think of a lie. Either way, Erik never lies to himself; it's the only way he knows how to keep his (admittedly relative) sanity.

 

So he doesn't pretend that he loves Charles or that Charles is somehow more important than his life goal. He's used to Charles' presence, charmed by the man's easy and eager openness to the new and yet unexplored, awed by his power, grateful for the help and embarrassingly fond of Charles' confident and strong presence. In a different world, where Erik would be a better person, he would even go so far as to call Charles a friend. For all that, however, his feelings hardly go past occasional bursts of warm affection and strong waves of thankfulness.

 

Erik sees the love that Charles tries to hide in his eyes; during sex particularly, Charles' control slips so much more than Charles is aware and Erik can _feel_ the tremendous ocean of Charles' emotions for him – all good, all warm, all pleasant. But he can't reciprocate in kind. It makes him feel even more inadequate for where he is and what he's doing. He knows that Charles is trying to help, that he wants to gather a group of allies to assist Erik on his path, but Erik can't help the feeling that he's sitting around, doing nothing as Shaw slips further away from him. He blames Charles, gets irrationally angry, adds the rage at Charles to the iceberg already in his soul. He resents Charles for his soft hands and fancy clothes and the big mansion, for the education Erik didn't even have an opportunity to get, for the money and luxury and everything Erik's parents tried so hard to give him just a glimpse of, and Charles had since birth without even lifting a finger.

 

It's unfair, he knows, to blame Charles for what is not really his fault – he didn't choose his parents or his social status, but Erik can't help it. It's unfair to take everything Charles offers and counter it with no more than impersonal nights and cold, insincere affection, but it's all he has. It probably makes him a terrible person, but lord knows Erik's so bad already, he could hardly get worse. So he does what he does best – rationalizes, justifies, accepts and moves on. It's surprisingly difficult when Charles looks at him with those open and honest blue eyes, when Charles kisses him like it would kill him if he didn't, when Charles gently touches his scars like they're the most exquisite works of art, when Charles cares for him like he's something immensely valuable and very breakable. It makes Erik angry, that Charles has such an effect on him at all, that Erik _lets_ him. It just enhances the gap between them, makes Erik even more contemptuous of Charles and drives them further apart. Erik is not sorry. The casual almost-friendship was getting to be too much for him anyway, the prospect of feeling again too close for comfort, the distraction from his one true fate too big. It's better to distance himself, better to let Charles know exactly where they stand – nowhere.

 

Erik wonders if Charles can tell that there's no hope for them, no joint future, nothing to look forward to. If he can, he doesn't show it; if anything, he pushes more, with more urgency and more desperation. It's almost funny how hard Charles is trying to win him over. It's too bad that Erik is only getting more and more tired of Charles' pathetic promises and too-big dreams.

 

Erik may lie to everyone else, but he doesn't lie to himself. He cares for Charles more than he does for most of the planet, but he doesn't love Charles. He can't, not with the way Charles reminds him of just about everything that is wrong with his life. Not with the way Charles enrages him with his stupidly naïve faith in good, in _Erik_. No, Charles makes every single horrible thing that has ever happened in Erik's existence stand out and Erik can't live with that. So he doesn't love Charles, he _loathes_ Charles. And he's not even sorry for that – it's Charles' fault anyway, Charles was the one who started all this, saved him from the water and offered help and kissed him. There's nothing for Erik to feel sorry about, he can't control his feelings. And in that jumbled mess of them (anger, rage, desire for revenge, impatience, regret, pain to name but a few), there's no room for love.

 

Or so he tells himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deliberately left vague because there's another chapter coming. Hope you enjoyed it anyway and thank you for reading ^^

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I know, I'm terrible. ~~Personally, I'm rolling with, _Of course Erik can lie in his own head, what are you talking about_. I suggest you do the same xD~~ Anyway, thank you for reading and hope you enjoyed it ^^
> 
>  
> 
> ...And then there were two more unplanned chapters.


End file.
